


Voicemail, Violets, and Valentines

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, They're both bad at feels, Valentine's Day Fluff, Valentines, bad poems, get-together, shut up I like sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has left Phil a valentine, and okay, so it's sappy, so sue him, love poems aren't his strength okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voicemail, Violets, and Valentines

**Author's Note:**

> This is unremitting fluff. Like, SO MUCH with the fluff.

_So, Nat said I should find my balls and say something, and also she said Valentine's Day was coming up, and I mean, all I know about that is those kids' cards with the perforated edges and the construction paper envelope box things at school, which, well, I usually missed that day which was fine because I didn't have any cards to bring but, fuck, that isn't the point, because the point is, I made you a card which, she made me but I did kinda want to but still, balls, you know, but then I hid it because, I don't know, I freaked out a little and it would give me time to decide whether to give it to you and then it would turn up on time, but now you're just coming in from two unexpected days on the other side of the world and it won't make sense if you find it on some other day, I mean it would if you were still gone today but you aren't, and I'm four thousand miles away and so I can't sneak in and just retrieve it and never speak of it again which is probably because Nat knew I would chicken out again and probably she arranged for this shit to happen and I fucking hate cactuses, cacti, whatever, except, um, shit, except the ones, anyway, it's under the second blue towel in your whatever your towel closet thing and just, you know, don't laugh at me? I hope to be back by Tuesday, but then again, I hoped not to be in Mexico in the first place and also my phone is making dying beeping noises so anyway there's a card and it's in the closet. Bye. Oh, and if you already found it because you notice shit, this is why and also still don't laugh at me. Bye._

* * *

Phil hasn't had a good reason to keep his land line since his mom died, because pretty much everyone else in his life is also in SHIELD, and that means they all just find him on his work cell. But Mom never wanted to call a cell, even though of course he does in fact have a personal one too, ( _What if you're busy, darling? Or at a movie. I hate when people take calls on their computers at a movie. No, I'll just try you at home, and leave a message. Yes, dear, I still_ have _the other number, but only if it's an emergency. I won't be swayed._ ) and so he kept the land line (it's still on the wall, even; he was an early cell adopter and never bothered going cordless) and the answering machine, just for her. That she's been gone for nearly two years now just means he's sentimental. Shh, don't tell anyone at SHIELD. Except maybe Barton because apparently he knows anyway?

But it's not a number he gives out, so he has no idea how Clint got it, but right now, he's just very glad he didn't check that message on his way home because that's the kind of message that would have distracted him all to shit. Hell, he only just now noticed the light blinking (weird, since because he's unlisted and on pretty much every Do Not Even Think About Telemarketing At Me list, he hasn't gotten a message in, well, nearly two years), and he got home last night. Actually, it's a sign of just _how_ tired he still is after an unfortunately-grueling 54 hours awake (and a seven-hour night of sleep that might as well have just been a nap) that when he initially noticed it he started considering the relative probabilities of his mother phoning from the grave versus a mechanical failure in the answering machine before it occurred to him to just go push the button.

Now he pushes it again and listens to the message a second time as he goes to retrieve the card from the towels. This time he notices that Clint doesn't stop for a breath for something like 250 words, and he smiles into the linen closet. 

Well, and he also smiles because this time it penetrates his consciousness that Clint _made him a valentine_ and then made the most awkward phone call ever rather than, for instance, stopping in to get it in the hour Phil knows he had between getting the assignment and wheels up. Maybe it will be nothing, but it sounds like it's not, and... and Phil has been setting aside his ever-increasing lust—no, not lust. Interest, but more than that. Hell, he's in love and he knows it, but Clint's never said anything, and so neither has Phil. Until now, and apparently now comes with a card.

It's right where Clint said, of course, in a homemade envelope to go around the homemade craft-paper card. Phil runs his fingers over the creamy paper, then takes out the card. The front is a hand-drawn bunch of flowers that have arrows for stems and comical little bows, targets, and ...explosions? For leaves and blossoms. Every one is different, and every one is uniquely colorful. And amazing. Even if this is the whole card, it's gorgeous.

He opens it. 

_Roses are red, but also a lot of other colors but apparently red is most popular,_  
 _Violets are not fucking blue, they are purple I like purple what's wrong with purple,_  
 _I sort of want to take you to dinner and take you home and do bad bad things to you,_  
 _Nothing rhymes with purple. Now I get why they always use blue._

_Bad poetry aside, the third line is totally true, which is why I brought you flowers. Arrow flowers. Whatever. But, in case the poetry part matters to your answer:_

_Roses are red, violets are blue,_  
 _Please come to dinner, and let me feed you._  
 _Lavender's purple, some cacti bloom white,_  
 _Then would you stay in my bed for the night?_  
 _Vines like a morning glory grow in a tangle,_  
 _I know you might worry I'm playing some angle._  
 _But sweet peas and blackberries climb up the fence,_  
 _And honest, I want you, no games, no pretense._

_Clint_

Phil stares at the text for a few minutes, flushing hot and, he's sure, pink, then sets down the envelope on the towels and takes the card with him back to the phone, the land line because why not. He dials Clint's number before he can panic and think of an excuse to stall. Clearly he's been stalling on this way past long enough, and he's hardly even taking a risk. 

It rings once and then, “Barton.”

“Yes, and yes. Only since I'm home now, you should come here for dinner when you get in.” It turns out despite the minimal risk he can only manage this in his cool Agent Coulson voice, but he really hopes Clint understands there is absolutely nothing professional about this.

“Um. I... Phil?”

“Did you leave invitations for several people?”

“No. I just. I didn't think you'd want to, um. I expected you to pretend it never happened.”

“Not a chance, Barton. No games, no pretense, no dying on the spot of how much I want everything you said. Although I would like to know what the bad bad things might be. Are you alone?”

“...No.” 

“Too bad. I'm hoping there will be a lot of lube involved.”

There's a rustle on the other end of the line, and a door slams, and then Clint is back. “Yeah, now I'm alone, but if this turns into phone sex it's going to be obvious so just, let's not.”

Phil chuckles. “Barton, I've been waiting for years. I think I can wait a couple more days.”

“Uh, yeah, about that? We wrapped it up early. I'm landing in like ten minutes.”

“Then unless you need to stop by medical I'll see you in an hour?”

Clint makes a funny sound that Phil can't readily interpret, then says, “You... really? Like, right now?”

“I really, and yes. I'll make lunch.”

“Okay. Wait, years?”

“What?”

“You've been waiting years?”

“Years.”

“Oh. Um, me too. And I should hang up now because otherwise this _is_ totally going to turn into phone sex and also because I can finish my paperwork before I land and I'll see you in an hour?”

“Looking forward to it.” 

He really is.

Phil hangs up the receiver and absently grabs a paper towel to wipe off the dust while he stares goofily at it, then blinks. Right. Shower. He ditches the t-shirt and sweatpants he'd dragged on when he got out of bed, suddenly realizing that all his exhaustion seems completely irrelevant to everything, and turns on the spray, ignoring the fact that the knowledge Clint is on his way here, for lunch and sex and maybe other things, has him half hard and definitely kind of tingling.

After the shower, he just puts on jeans and a sweater, which are another thing most agents don't need to know he owns, and makes a pile of sandwiches. 

The buzzer sounds fifty-eight minutes (but who's counting) after the end of their conversation, and when he looks out, Clint is ducking his head a little and obviously still damp from his own shower. And is holding roses.

Phil opens the door.

“Hey, um. So roses are red and I guess this is a thing? But I mean, they're more about—“

Phil takes the bouquet and steps back, gesturing Clint in. “You brought me flowers?”

“Didn't have time to draw more,” Clint says. He blushes a little and closes the door behind him. “So...” 

“They're nice.” Phil sets them on the side table, where they're probably going to drip on the wood but he doesn't care in any degree. “They're...” He steps forward into Clint's space and brushes their lips together, and oh. Wow, because Clint opens up for him immediately and lets him deepen the kiss and set the pace, and when they break apart, Clint's hands are bunched up in Phil's sweater and his lips are swollen and his blush has gone bright red. 

Phil waves a hand toward the kitchen. “Um, sandwiches are.” He stops and goes back for another kiss, and another, and really if this was an option, this should have been his life a long time ago. Five years ago. Any amount of time ago. Christ. He stops and leans his forehead against Clint's, panting a little. “Um. Roses are perfect, your...” he nuzzles his way along Clint's jaw. “Your poem was great, and.”

Clint nips at Phil's earlobe and he shudders. “And sandwiches later, turns out we _can't_ wait?”

Phil smiles against the fascinating skin under Clint's ear and nods. “Exactly.” He turns toward the bedroom. “Come on.”


End file.
